


Crashshite

by demonsonthemoon



Series: Winterhawk Bingo Fills [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fansong, Ficlet, Filk, Implied Dissociation, Implied Thoughts of Self-Harm, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: Two people movingEver so slowly towards anotherEach convinced that their handsAre a graveyard
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885450
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	Crashshite

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the "touch-starved" square on my Winterhawk Bingo card.
> 
> I wrote the song first and then thought the ficlet might be a good way to clarify the kind of story/mood I had in mind when writing the song!

Lyrics:  
  


Two people moving  
Ever so slowly towards another  
Each convinced that their hands  
Are a graveyard  
That their body  
Is a crashsite  
That defying gravity is a matter  
Of failing to fall

And you would do anything  
To spare another the pain of  
A body that can't recognize itself

Two people, I said,  
Two dogs circling one another  
All bark and not bite  
Only the desire  
To lick a wound clean  
Only the knowledge  
That you cannot trust your own teeth

And what if your heat burns  
With the need to trust another?  
There are worse ways to go than the pyre

Some people enjoy fasting  
The ritual denial of things  
The sense of connectedness that comes  
From a body under control  
The connection to something bigger  
Some people prefer death  
Over vulnerability

And won't try and wonder  
If we could keep each other warm  
Without setting fire to the world?

I'm not scared of the blood on your hands  
More so of who I am left with myself  
So won't you try to touch me and heal me  
Kiss me and love me  
For the stars to see?

And you would do anything  
To spare another the pain of  
A body that can't recognize itself  
  
*****  
  
Ficlet:

Clint catches the way that Bucky sometimes flinches when Steve pats him on the shoulder. The way he always reflexively clenches his muscles, forbidding himself to move. Clint gets it. There are still days he spends hiding from everyone else, afraid of what he'd do if they came too close.

And Bucky has more excuses than he does. Seventy years of brainwashing. Eight months spent on the run barely knowing who he was.

Clint had spent three days under alien control and his skin still feels itchy with it. Like he's some kind of Lady Macbeth and needs to wash it.

If Clint needs to hand Bucky a glass of water, he puts it down on the table. If he's handing him a gun, he holds it by the barrel. There is often something soft in Bucky's gaze as he picks up the object.

The others don't really get it. They think Clint and Bucky don't like each other, that that's why they act so distant. They don't always manage to see personal space as the gift it is. The safety it can provide others.

Natasha understands more than most. She knows what it feels like to scrape your hands raw with soap. She has learned, however, to use her body as a tool, to control it perfectly, to understand what it needs and make it get what she wants. So she doesn't understand everything.

They're nearing the anniversary of the Battle of New York and no one even _tries_ to invite Clint to one of the press conferences or fundraising events.

He doesn't sleep. He wants to sit somewhere high up and watch people, feel in control, but when he does he just start thinking about how much damage he could do, how easy it would be to pick them off one by one.

He drinks coffee when no one else is in the kitchen and doesn't sleep for four days even though he spends most of them in bed.

In the early hours of Day 5, the actual anniversary, Clint's hands shake so bad that he drops his mug and breaks it. He stares at the shards on the ground. He stares at the spill, so unlike that of blood seeping out of a wound, but similar all the same. He contemplates the risk of cutting himself if he picked up the pieces with his bare hands. He contemplates whether it would be a risk at all.

“Clint?”

The voice brings him out of his contemplation. He blinks. Realises that he has no idea how long he's been standing there for. He raises his head.

Facing him is no other than Bucky Barnes. It makes sense. He's not involved in any of the New York Anniversary business, so he's probably the only one still at the Tower with Clint. Wait. No. It's supposed to be the middle of the night.

Clint shakes his head, trying to get rid of the confusion that sticks to his thoughts.

“Are you okay?”

The question is so incredibly alien to this situation that Clint can't help but starts laughing. It's an ugly-sounding laugh, nervous and manic and hoarse. It only worsens the frown on Bucky's face.

“I haven't seen you at all the past few days.”

Clint crosses his arms across his chest and shrugs. “Can't be near people right now. Feel too... unstable. Dangerous.”

Bitter understanding settles over Bucky's eyes. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Clint is too tired to figure out whether he's supposed to say something else. He hopes that Bucky will just leave if he waits long enough.

“Try and hit me,” Bucky says.

“What?”

“Try and hit me.”

“I just told you I can't be around people because I might hurt them and you're _asking me_ to _hit_ you?”

“I'm asking you to _try._ Do you trust me?”

Clint opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything. _Does he?_ He barely knows Bucky. They get on well, but they're not _close_. Still. There's something in Bucky's self-confidence even in this weird-ass situation that makes Clint feels... safe.

He takes a swing at him.

Bucky immediately catches his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and pushing him against the kitchen counter. Somehow, it doesn't actually hurt.

“See? I'm safe. You're not dangerous to me.”

Clint doesn't know what does it. The words, or Bucky's calm tone. Or maybe the warmth and pressure of his body against him, more human contact than Clint has had for half a week.

Something in his body snaps, and the tension in his muscles releases.

Bucky catches his weight, preventing him from crashing to the ground in a rather undignified way.

“It's okay. I've got you.”

His grip shifts, until he's no longer restraining Clint, but hugging him from behind.

Clint closes his eyes and breathes.


End file.
